Normal? Gasp! Splutter! Perhaps shudder . . . and what is normal, the actress asked the bishop. Boredom was creeping in; how did this happen to me? She flicked her hair out of her eyes. How did I land up here? Again.
Normal, he asked himself, how did I utter such a suspect word. Why didn't I run it past Uncle Wally, checked it out, given a bit more thought to it all. The scandal word came to mind, the labyrinth of of mind. The desire word came to mind. To be pulled towards and into the flesh of another. Surely that's normal . . . is it normal? He wanted to go home, but he was at home. The dull familiarity of it all as though the dust was thickening around him with each breath. No, not so much around him as in his lungs. She was chattering on and on and he was unable to hear a word she was saying. Had he turned the sound off? Suddenly he was terribly afraid that she was going to take her clothes off.
Meanwhile back in Upping Street Pinkie Posh Camisole had his sleeves rolled up and was experimenting with facial expressions in the mirror. He lusted after determination, courage even, to face down any event that had the merest whiff of crisis about it, like the lack of dosh in his, well, the country's big china, and very, very empty, pig (a present from Great Aunt Maggie). Pinkie was waiting for his new dance partner, Nix C. Legg. As usual he was late; such a prima donna! What was he up to? Could he be trusted? He attempted a threatening, but knowing, grimace in the mirror.